


hands

by lovelylogans



Series: tumblr fics [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Stream of Consciousness, poetry? i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 18:36:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21059078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelylogans/pseuds/lovelylogans
Summary: There are these things he is feeling it all with, the long line of his forearm almost graceful, the bones of his wrist easy to find, his fingers always reaching. These are his hands, and they are his, and they will always be his.He is made up of hard things and soft things and smooth things and rough things and they are all his. He is the body and he is not the dark.One, two, three, four, five.





	hands

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this when i couldn't sleep, so.

One, two, three, four, five. There, the way he can flex his thumb just so, the way it pops only some of the time. Here, the veins protruding against his skin, greenish in the low light. One, two, three, four, five. The jagged edge where he picked at his pointer finger nail earlier in the week, the sensitive press from where he’s torn a hangnail too far. The bend in his middle finger his pointer finger tucked into so neatly, or maybe it was the other way around. One, two, three, four, five. The crooked ridge of his nails on his ring finger, the way he could press his pinky delicately out of its socket before it eased back into place, no harm done, no hurt felt. One, two, three, four, five.

The familiar strain when he crosses his fingers too hard, the way his fingers tremble if he pushes them back for too long, too hard. The bite of his nails in the delicate skin beside his nails. The soft click-click when he taps his tips of his nails into the beds of the others. One, two, three, four, five.

These are his hands and they are constant except for where they change and grow and destruct with him. They are his to mangle and his to control and his to touch.

He is alone in a dark room with only the distant light from the window igniting him and he is sitting up in his bed, mapping out his hands because he couldn’t manage the journey for his phone with the swamping shadows around him. There are socks on his feet and a shirt loose against his chest and his blankets are tangled, shoved aside, too hot and too much. One, two, three, four, five. Five fingers on each hand and five toes on each foot. Two legs, two arms, two eyes, two ears, two lungs, two shoulders. He cannot muster up the strength or resolve or energy to cross a room so here are the things he will distract himself with until his brain quiets enough for sleep.

This is where the burn scar used to be from when he accidentally hit the wires of the oven when getting a pizza before it healed over. This is where the strawberry marking is from accidentally knocking his hand into the cabinet when getting a mug this morning. This is where the freckle lies behind his ear.

Do not think, do not think, there is only the body and the dark and he is the body and he is not the dark.

Here, the twin divots of his knee when he straightens his leg. There, the birthmark that looks like an errant smudge of dirt. These are the muscles of his thigh, long and strong, and they do not give when he presses into them with his fingertips. But there is the softness of his calves, and here is the softness of his stomach.

These are the ridges of his floating false ribs, and that is the rib that flows up to connect to the angry ridge of his sternum, firm and protective. These are the bumpy vertebrae of his neck that forms the column that holds all of him up.

He presses his hands against his chest and takes a few awed moments to feel his heart thump, the strongest muscle there was. Aortas and ventricles and valves. Blood and oxygen.

This is his hair. These are his eyebrows. Those soft squishy things are his eyes. He scrunches up his nose and tests how easily the cartilage of it will give. These are his cheeks, warm under his hands, and these are his lips, just barely chapped, and dry. This is his adam’s apple and that is the hollow of his throat, and these are tendons or maybe sinew, he can never remember the difference. This is another point where the echo of his heart is loud and clear, and he takes a moment to feel the blood rushing from his head.

He is the body and he is the brain, or he has the body and he has the brain. They were inextricable, these things, and he could barely spare a thought for them now. Philosophy could wait until he was out of the dark.

There is so much detail here. There is the lock of hair that he first reaches to tug on in moments of frustration. There is the callus that formed on his hand that he could never be rid of. There is the rough prickly skin at the bottom of his feet. There is the smooth sweeping curve of the shell of his ear. His teeth are giant in his mouth. There is the way his kneecap shifts from side to side if he presses. There is a cluster of freckles, draped over his shoulders like a cape bestowed by the sun.

There are these things he is feeling it all with, the long line of his forearm almost graceful, the bones of his wrist easy to find, his fingers always reaching. These are his hands, and they are his, and they will always be his.

He is made up of hard things and soft things and smooth things and rough things and they are all his. He is the body and he is not the dark.

One, two, three, four, five.


End file.
